Winter Sleepers
by Philadelphia Tuesday
Summary: Jonathan thinks about what might have been and tries to move on. AU.


Author's Note: I wrote this piece a few weeks ago, before Martha went to work for Lionel, and before Nell moved away. I hope it doesn't seem overly out of character.  
Disclaimer: I don't own them. :)  
  
* * * * *  
  
In the winter, when cold air carries the scent of smoke every night, that's when he misses her most.   
  
He wrote a letter once and mailed it across a thousand miles and in it he talked about how that time of year was his favorite, and he knew somehow that she would understand what he meant, and she had, and that had been a perfect moment between them, in his mind.  
  
It's not his favorite time of year anymore, because now when summer ends, when he first feels the bitter wind bite through unending layers of flannel and insulation and later in the season when he sees bare branches illuminated by streetlights downtown, he can only think of her.  
  
He lived through the first winter after she left, and the second, and the third, and he supposes he'll live through this one, by necessity if not by choice.   
  
They didn't know each other very well when he sent that letter about smoke and snow, at least not in terms of what-do-your-parents-do-and-how-many-sisters-do-you-have. When he returned from that trip, he was surprised to find that across each of those thousand miles he couldn't stop imagining her face as she studied the paper on which he'd written the words: I'm leaving here tomorrow, I'll be home soon.   
  
She would read it quickly the first time, he figured, to get the gist of it, then go back and re-read each line carefully, trying to memorize every word. Then she'd laugh at herself for being that kind of person, which she was certain she wasn't, and fold the letter up, stuff it in a pocket or back in the envelope. Later she'd pull it out again when no one was looking and examine his handwriting, touch the indentations in the paper, trying to feel the connection between the ink he'd spread and her fingers now.   
  
Hell, maybe he was flattering himself, maybe she just read it and tossed it in the trash, having gotten the message. His last steady girlfriend had been of the colder kind, the kind who wasted hours of heartfelt effort, who filled the wastebasket with crumpled stationery when he was away. But he had a feeling about this one, that she wasn't the girl she thought she was, and he liked that.   
  
He wonders what she would do if he sent her a letter now. Probably sigh and lock it up in a desk drawer, unopened. He doesn't have anything poetic to say to her anymore anyway.  
  
It was like she'd simply hung up the telephone while he was still on the line, waiting for her to take her turn. If anyone ever asked, he would say that it all began to disintegrate when Clark went away to college. Left alone in the house, with bills to pay and tasks to perform, they had retreated to their corners and gone about their respective work quietly. Maybe she'd had too much time to think, because it only took a few months of that before her clothes were simply missing from the closet one morning. After the realization struck him, he sat on the bed clutching her pillow--still damp from wet hair the night before--for hours. Then the phone rang, and her voice was small, and her explanation was weak, but he just said, "Okay." And then it was his turn to leave her alone on the other end.  
  
He'd survived an entire year without her. Old girlfriends had offered solace on cold nights, baked him sympathy pies, cajoled him into spending nights in the tavern rather than at home alone. The first year had passed quickly. But, alone now, taking in the scent of recent fire, he can't help but wonder how much longer this is going to last. He had expected her to at least come back to get other things besides the clothes she took; her books, old letters, the shirts she left in the laundry. A year later, her books and letters were in boxes and he was fond of using one particular flannel shirt that didn't belong to him to wipe down his truck.  
  
She hadn't said on the phone that first time or any of the other awkward times after, but he knew her father had welcomed her home with open arms, glad to see she'd finally come to her senses. He wasn't blind and he liked to think he wasn't stupid; he'd always known what she sacrificed to be with him, even if she'd been too kind to agree with her father back then. Sometimes he thinks he always knew their time together was temporary, and he wouldn't trade any of it for anything different or better or more. They had survived all those years, and they'd raised a kind son who went to college and got a fine job, committing himself to the full-time pursuit of truth. He wouldn't trade any of it for anything.  
  
Except in the winter, when cold air carries the scent of smoke every night. That's when he thinks he would trade it all to fix the last night he'd spent with Nell, to make it end the way it should have, and they would have married and had their own children, children who wouldn't have required special attention the way Clark did, and then Martha could have realized her potential and he wouldn't have been holding anyone back, and Jonathan and Nell Kent would have taken in Lana and raised her like their own daughter after the meteor shower--he'd always wanted a little girl--and everyone would have lived happily ever after.   
  
But that isn't what happened, and if he can't fix a night that ended badly a thousand years ago, at least he can try to make sure this one ends the way it should. He takes a deep breath, steps forward, pushes himself into the future. He rings the doorbell. Nell answers; she smiles. She wants him there. He decides to stop thinking about the one who did once and doesn't now. She gestures for him to come inside. He closes the door behind them as she begins to fill the silence with pleasantries and he thinks: so this is what the first day of the rest of your life feels like. They will marry. She will move in, assert her presence, help him banish all traces of the other from the rooms they once shared.   
  
And summer nights will always be sweeter than evenings like this.


End file.
